


I Don't Want To Be Your Friend

by waroftheposes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Pining Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waroftheposes/pseuds/waroftheposes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The press would have a field day if they knew about Enjolras' crush on 1832's lead singer.</p>
<p>Social media would probably implode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Want To Be Your Friend

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: dear all, this fic had some image issues, it is now fixed. Feel free to enjoy it again.
> 
>  
> 
> A few months ago I was introduced to a particular singer whom I thought dressed and looked sometimes acted exactly like how a modern Grantaire would. The story kind of took off from there. 
> 
> This fic would have been absolutely impossible without the extensive help of my dear friend [Nicole](http://wizzardblizzard.tumblr.com/) who both betad and read it for accurate boyband references. A special thanks also to [Blair](http://linguisticjubilee.tumblr.com/), for helping out in all the ways that I needed her to.

—

Enjolras is sitting in front of the mirror and fretting over his hair when Courfeyrac opens the door and pops his head in.

“Hey dude we’re on in fifteen, you ready?” he asks and decides to walk in and join Enjolras in front of the mirror. His smiling reflection is a stark contrast to Enjolras’ worried expression.

Enjolras subconsciously raises a hand towards his hair, nerves making him hate it no matter what angle he turns his head. He doesn’t look good this way, but the idea had been to emulate 1832 and Enjolras, being his own band’s de facto leader, had to take the role of 1832’s lead singer, which, unfortunately, means that his hair has been slicked back on the sides to make it looked shaved with the top teased, and Enjolras looks ridiculous. He thinks, playing with a loose strand in his hair, that there’s no way he could ever look as effortlessly attractive as Grantaire.

“Your hair looks fine Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, following the motion of Enjolras’ hand and slapping it away when it lingers. “You’ve never looked better. Come _on_ let’s go meet the rest of the boys, yea?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath and stands up, turning to Courfeyrac.

“I can’t do this,” he says before he can stop himself.

Courfeyrac, god bless him, actually looks surprised. “What do you mean you can’t do this? We’ve been practicing for ages.”

They hadn’t been practicing “for ages.” Courfeyrac is just being dramatic since mere days translate into ages in his mind. Enjolras pointedly rolls his eyes just so Courfeyrac can see what he thinks of that statement.

“This was a bad idea.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “Enjolras, what the hell is going on? I’ve never in my life seen you worry about a performance like this. I don’t think you’ve ever used the words _can_ ’ _t_ and _do_ and _it_ in the same sentence. Seriously dude, what the hell?”

Enjolras let’s out a frustrated noise and plants himself in his chair. Of course Courfeyrac has a point. From the minute Les Amis had been formed, to their unsuccessful journey in the X-factor, to the release of their first album, he has been the face of confidence. Three years—and several million fans—and he’s actually feeling nervous going to perform on TV. He can’t bring himself to look at Courfeyrac so he drops his head into his hands and closes his eyes. “When they said pick your favorite band, we should have thought harder about it.”

He hears Courfeyrac drag a chair and settle down near him.

“The decision was unanimous,” Courfeyrac says gently.

“Yes but—”

“But nothing, we all love them Enjolras. All of us, not just you. If the situation was reversed they would have picked us just as fast,” Enjolras looks up at him. “What is this really about?”

“Nothing,” he answers, probably too quickly. “I’ve just never done something like this before?” He allows his shoulders to relax and smiles at Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac smirks. “You mean dressed up as the object of your most scandalous dreams?”

Enjolras feels heat crawl up his body and slaps Courfeyrac’s hand away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, as coolly as he can manage.

Courfeyrac snorts at him. “Sure you don’t,” he says and pats Enjolras on the back. “Now come on Romeo, you ready to sing about salvation in a secular age and shit?”

Enjolras stands up again. “Ready to say the work _fuck_ on national television,” he says, giving Courfeyrac another smile and choosing to ignore the Romeo comment.

Courfeyrac heads towards the door. “Oh my God, could you imagine? Even Valjean would probably pop a vein if you did.”

Enjolras opens the door, lets Courfeyrac walk through and closes it behind himself. “Yea, that’s too risky for our image,” he says. “How did we even get him to agree to this?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “He wants us to be happy and this is good PR. Also 1832 is on the same record label as us, they probably told him to do it to get them more publicity.”

Enjolras nods. He’s happy he gets to pretend to be Grantaire, he really is, it’s just also very scary. Being scared stresses him out because he’s rarely scared in his life.

They turn the corner and find the rest of the band standing next to the stage door. Jehan and Combeferre are wearing loose t-shirts, but Joly is dressed in his normal clothes. He smiles and shrugs at Enjolras’ inquisitive look.

“It’s a four person band, it would be weird to have five people on stage.”

Enjolras frowns. “Weren’t you going to be backup guitar?”

“Nah, it’s more fun this way,” he says leaning agains the wall. “Nice leather jacket, by the way.”

Enjolras unconsciously raises a hand to touch the jacket’s collar. “Thanks it’s—”

“Grantaire’s. We know,” Combeferre cuts in.

“You’ve said it like, fifty times by now,” Jehan provides helpfully as Combeferre looks around at everyone. “Ok guys, when you walk in just pretend like everything’s normal, try not to look like you’re acting.”

“Yea we know,” Courfeyrac says, putting an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre calls as the lights on the stage go out.

“Yes?”

“Try to not look like you’re about to faint,” he says, and then the announcer is saying their names and they have to walk on to the stage.

The performance goes really well. Enjolras sings and Courfeyrac and Combeferre provide backup vocals and they all four of them pretend like they can play instruments. The announcer asks them why they chose the band and Enjolras answers that 1832 is their favorite band. Joly adds that he would join 1832 in a heartbeat and the crowd eats it up. Overall it’s a great gig.

Not to mention that tumblr and twitter also explode. The fans love everything about the performance: from Courfeyrac’s loose, black tanktop, to the fact that Les Amis unapologetically love 1832, to (surprisingly) Enjolras’ slick-backed hair.

“ _It was amazing_ ,” Courfeyrac reads aloud from his phone that night when they’re all sitting in Jehan’s hotel room. Enjolras, comfortable on the big armchair and looking out the window, feels himself tuning in and out of the conversation. “ _I didn_ ’ _t know I wanted Enjolras singing about tearing off my blouse until today._ ”

Enjolras groans but smiles anyways.

“ _And did you see Jehan_ ’ _s outfit? It was to die for. My only complaint is that Joly wasn_ ’ _t there. But I guess they couldn_ ’ _t put five people on could they?_ ”Courfeyrac looks up from his phone screen and smiles at Joly. “Aww, People missed you, boo.”

Joly raises himself slightly off the bed, where he’d been pretending to be asleep, just to glare at Courfeyrac. “Don’t call me boo. Also, you bet your sweet ass they did.”

Enjolras watches Joly and Courfeyrac bicker and tunes them out completely. The band did really well, despite Enjolras’ nerves, and having the fan confirmation makes him feel really good about it. But he can’t get rid of the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that notices the members of 1832 have been oddly quiet. Bousset at least, should have contacted Les Amis—Joly—by now to give an opinion. They’d be all over this normally,but they haven’t.

“Oh, this tweet says we performed the song better than the original.” Courfeyrac’s voice cuts through Enjolras’ thoughts. He feels a sense of annoyance at this. How could someone say that?

“That’s a load of crap,” Joly calls from the bed and Enjolras silently agrees. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and goes on twitter, quickly finding the tweet in question and replying to it—a bit more politely than Joly’s comment. He rests his head on the armchair and puts his phone on his lap. Closing his eyes, he lets the fatigue take over and misses the first time his phone buzzes, alerting him of a text. The second time it buzzes, Enjolras startles out of his daze and grabs his phone.

It’s from Grantaire.

His breath hitches and, for a second, he can’t make out the words of the text. He closes his eyes, breathes out, and opens them again.

_Better than the original indeed_ , it reads and Enjolras can’t reply fast enough.

_Don_ ’ _t be an idiot,_ he sends Grantaire.

_Just telling the truth. Just watched your performance. Am now afraid of you taking my job away. And my haircut. Way to rock the undercut :)_

Enjolras almost replies with something stupid. He almost says that no one could sound as amazing on stage as Grantaire does, or that the haircut only ever looks good on one person and that person is Grantaire. Instead he spends three minutes looking at the smiley face on Grantaire’s text and smiling stupidly to himself. He finally replies with: _Didn_ ’ _t you know, the original is always better than the copy._

_Not in this case_ , is the immediate reply.

Not able to come up with any witty responses, Enjolras quickly types, _You are impossible._

Grantaire sends “:P” and Enjolras can’t find a response to that. There are so many things he wishes to say to Grantaire but none of them would make sense in the conversation they are having. He sighs, putting his phone away, and thinks that at least Grantaire seems to have enjoyed their performance. Not that Enjolras will voice it out loud, but Grantaire’s approval, in this situation, is the most important thing.

—

“ _Any new songs you_ ’ _ve been listening to?_ ” _The interviewer asks and Feuilly snorts._

_Grantaire looks thoughtful for a moment before bringing the mic to his mouth._ “ _Uh_ … _um_ … _I_ ’ _ve been listening to the_ Frozen _soundtrack._ ”

“ _Yea we love_ Frozen _._ ”

“ _We like loads of stuff, we like McFly._ ”

“ _Oh yea we love McFly._ ”

“ _Is it a guilty pleasure?_ ”

_Grantaire laughs._ “ _Nah man, we don_ ’ _t have guilty pleasures._ ” _He looks at Feuilly with a smile._ “ _We just have pleasures._ ”

_The interviewer smiles politely._ “ _So_ Les Amis _just performed your single_ Girls _on_ The Lounge _how do you feel about that?_ ”

_Grantaire looks at Feuilly and Feuilly nods at him._

“ _We thought it was brilliant._ ”

“ _Best thing that ever happened to our band._ ”

“ _Best thing that happened to Grantaire_ ’ _s haircut._ ”

“ _So you don_ ’ _t mind that a boy band covered your song?_ ”

“ _Are you kidding?_ ” _Grantaire asks loudly._ “ _They can cover our whole album. We love those boys._ ”

_Next to him, Feuilly nods his agreement._

—

Enjolras turns off the TV in his hotel room and sighs. Sometimes he worries that Les Amis are not taken seriously as musicians because they’re a boy band. He knows that there will always be people who will make fun of them for it, people who won’t take their music seriously. Even though Enjolras, Jehan and Combeferre write all their songs and Courfeyrac and Joly compose all the music. But then there are people like Feuilly and Grantaire that defend them, praise their music, their ethics, their work.

That Grantaire, whose music Enjolras admires, praises their band makes happiness blossom in Enjolras’ heart.

Enjolras sighs and decidedly does not think about what that implies about his feelings for Grantaire. It’s not like him to avoid things the way he’s been avoiding thinking about Grantaire for the past, well, two years. But it’s also not like him to have feelings for anyone, so he excuses himself by claiming his unfamiliarity with romantic feelings.

Not that he has romantic feelings for Grantaire.

Grantaire is a good song writer. He’s attractive even though he has a dumb haircut and a horrible sense of fashion—Enjolras’ stylist cries over Grantaire’s fashion choices on a regular basis. Enjolras spends hours with make-up artists before he goes to an interview. Grantaire throws something on and miraculously looks flawless.

Grantaire is infuriating and exists only to antagonize Enjolras. Grantaire, who has found his way into Enjolras’ heart and refuses to leave.

Not that Enjolras has feelings for him…

Enjolras groans and closes his eyes. Denial, apparently, isn’t just a river in Egypt.

Stupid interview, stupid TV, stupid fucking Grantaire for being in a pretentious indie band that’s open to all kinds of music.

The phone vibrates next to Enjolras and he blindly reaches out with a hand to grab it.

There’s a text from Feuilly.

_Hope u liked the interview. R and I are in town. Wanna hang out?_

Enjolras groans even louder this time.

**_To Feuilly:_ ** _Of course._

—

 

—

Enjolras wakes up to the sound of the shower running. He tries to think of why his shower is running when he is in bed and doesn’t share a hotel room with anyone, and his sleepy mind draws a blank. Keeping his eyes closed, he listens to the sound of the running water. Had he asked Feuilly or—God forbid—Grantaire over to his hotel room last night? He doesn’t really remember. There had been alcohol involved, too much for an oft sober Enjolras, so he’s not surprised, but he briefly worries about whether he’d behaved in an embarrassing or regrettable way last night.

The water turns off and Enjolras hears the shower door open and close. A moment later, the bathroom door opens and Enjolras opens his eyes just in time to see Grantaire steps into the hotel room. His heart skips a beat. Grantaire is wearing a towel around his hips and a small one around his neck. Droplets of water fall off his hair onto his tattooed shoulder and down his chest. Enjolras tries very hard not to stare. He thinks he succeeds when he can successfully raise his eyes from Grantaire’s torso back to his face.

Grantaire smiles sheepishly at him and walks over to the sofa to sit down.

Enjolras winces. “Oh my God, you’re wet!” he says, his distress over the sofa getting wet putting a temporary pause to his uncontrollable ogling. “Get off that thing right now.”

Grantaire obeys by standing up and throwing himself onto Enjolras’ bed.

Enjolras thinks he might die. 

“Better?” Grantaire asks, with a self satisfied smile. He props both elbows on the bed, leaning his chin on one hand and using the other to rub the towel in his hair.

Enjolras attempts to kick him. “That has to be uncomfortable,” he says, trying to hit the elbow Grantaire is using to keep himself upright. “Why don’t you stop being a nuisance and go dry off in the bathroom?”

“What? And miss aggravating you? How could you suggest such a thing?”

Enjolras sighs, giving up on trying to unbalance Grantaire. “Fine, do whatever,” he says, as if Grantaire in such a state of undress is not affecting his brain function at all. “I couldn’t care less.”

Grantaire hums and rubs the towel behind one ear vigorously. Enjolras watches him, pretending he is not, and feels warmth spread throughout his body.

“What the hell are you even doing here?” he asks instead of focusing on the heat pooling in his abdomen. “You know, besides annoying the hell out of me.”

Grantaire finishes rubbing the towel over his hair and looks up at Enjolras through his lashes. “Do I need a reason to crave your company? The mere promise of your voice is enough to draw me to your room.”

Enjolras groans audibly and glares.

Grantaire sighs, lifting himself up into a sitting position. “You got very drunk last night, so I brought you here a little earlier than planned. I stayed because I was worried about you, I don’t think you’ve ever been that drunk.” He frowns at Enjolras’ incredulous face. “Don’t look like that, I care about your safety.”

_Of course you do_ , Enjolras wants to say, _You_ ’ _re nearly perfect._

Instead he says, “Did the paps get any photos of us?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I don’t know, probably?”

“Ugh,” Enjolras responds, putting his arm over his face. “I’m gonna hear about that from Valjean later.”

Grantaire makes an inquisitive noise. It’s not a secret that Valjean is the most forgiving manager in the entire industry, and yet…

“Even Valjean has his limits,” Enjolras provides as an explanation.

“You having to be physically supported on your way to your hotel is one of them?” Enjolras opens his eyes in surprise at that. Physically supported? Grantaire could not have carried him up here, could he?

“Are you joking?” He asks, his voice raising.

Grantaire gives him a cheeky smile. “Yea.”

Enjolras throws a pillow at him in retaliation.

“Can I tell the general public that you’re a delight in the morning?” Grantaire asks, easily dodging the pillow and getting up. He throws the pillow back at Enjolras and bends over the bed to retrieve his socks. “I’m gonna change in the bathroom, alright?” He says to Enjolras, a little more seriously.

“Yea, do whatever you want,” Enjolras says, waving a hand as Grantaire turns to go. “Hey, Grantaire?”

Grantaire turns slightly. “Hmm?”

“Thank you.” It’s very hard for him to get the words out, mostly because showing one emotion could lead to him showing more than he means to.

Grantaire gives him a smile that starts small and take over his face. “What are friends for, yea?”

He let’s himself into the bathroom, leaving Enjolras stunned on the bed.

They’re _friends._ Of course they’re friends. An obvious fact like that shouldn’t make Enjolras smile like a love-struck teenager.

And yet…

—-

“ _Life_ ’ _s too short to cry over crappy coffee and drink with boys who don_ ’ _t care._ ”

_-Grantaire (1832)_

 

_ _

—

They weren’t friends at first. In fact, they hated each other.

The other members of their bands didn’t. Joly was best friends with 1832’s bass player Bousset and that’s how they had all met, originally. Les Amis had just released their first album and 1832 had produced an EP—with a fairly popular single—but the nine of them had met and become friends. Everyone except Enjolras and Grantaire, who hated each other on the spot.

Hate is a strong word, more like strongly disliked each other. Enjolras had taken one look at Grantaire’s clothes and his hair and made assumptions he shouldn’t have, and Grantaire had instantly rebutted him. Cursed at him about snobbery and enforcing stereotypes and, well, they had ended the night in separate parts of the room glaring at each other.

And yet, Enjolras had went home thinking of Grantaire’s words. Grantaire had gotten under Enjolras’ skin, and Enjolras, without really understanding it, wanted to apologize. But he hadn’t felt ready to talk to Grantaire without yelling, so instead he decided to stalk the man online. He had started with Grantaire’s twitter account, and what he found there replaced all his guilt with anger. He went through months of Grantaire’s tweets, reading them and saving links obsessively.

The next time they met, Enjolras was armed.

He had asked Grantaire if they could speak privately. Enjolras was angry, but he was not in the habit of humiliating people in front of their friends. An unsuspecting Grantaire followed him to an empty room. Enjolras had let Grantaire in, closed the door, and turned to face Grantaire. Trying to make his voice seem casual, he began:

“You know, you made me feel like a total asshole last time we met,” he had told Grantaire. “You called me a hypocrite and told me I was perpetuating the stereotypes that I claim to resent. Well I’ve got news for you,” he had said pointing a finger at Grantaire. “You’re an asshole and an idiot and should really educate yourself before you talk.”

Grantaire had stared at him, his mouth opening and closing without any words coming out. Enjolras had felt some of his anger disappear at Grantaire’s reaction, replaced with an odd sort of disappointment.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about do you?”

Grantaire had shaken his head.

Enjolras had then taken out his phone and opened the links he had emailed to himself the previous night.

“This,” he had said, showing Grantaire his phone screen, the first link opened on the browser. “What the fuck is this?”

Grantaire had squinted at the phone screen as he read his own tweet.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “It’s just a tweet.”

Enjolras turned the phone around and read out loud: “ _I don_ ’ _t believe in religion but w/e makes u happy makes u happy._ ”

“I fail to see the problem here.” The hoarseness had disappeared from his voice, replaced with mild sarcasm.

Enjolras gave him sarcasm in return, in the form of a smile. He opened another link from his email. “Well there’s this you tweeted a few weeks ago: ‘ _religion kills ppl_ ’ and this the other day ‘ _fuck religion its only used to oppress ppl._ ’”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras quietly.

“Don’t you see? You’re a bag of contradictions and your ignorance isn’t only offensive, it’s hurtful.”

Grantaire had shrugged. “I don’t see how.”

“Condemning religion after you say everyone has a right to believe what they want. Generalizing and tweeting about things you don’t understand. “

Grantaire had sneered at him. “Oh and I’m supposed to take lessons from someone in a boy band?”

Enjolras could’ve sworn his heart would beat itself out of his chest in anger.

“You hypocrite.” When he spoke, his voice came out cool, a stark contrast to the anger he felt. “Last week you yelled at me for making assumptions about you. Today, you’ve proven that those assumptions were spot on.”

“What?” Grantaire had began, but Enjolras cut him off.

“You don’t look down on me, my job and my genre?” he had said bringing his face close to Grantaire’s. “Bullshit. I’m sorry I ever thought about apologizing to you.”

Enjolras left after that, ignoring Grantaire calling his name. He walked into the room with his friends and sat down, refusing to think of or even look towards Grantaire’s general direction. Grantaire approached him twice that evening, but Enjolras turned and walked away.

To him, that was the end of it, he and Grantaire would never get along—which was disappointing since everyone else got on so well. But the next day, at three in the morning, his doorbell began ringing. He tried to ignore it since the clock next to his bed read 3:00 AM, but the bell kept on ringing and ringing until he rolled out of bed and walked to the door. He’d opened it, thinking it might be a neighbor in an emergency (and wouldn’t that just be swell after he had ignored it for so long), but it was Grantaire.

Enjolras blinked, surprise clearing his sleep addled mind. He was too surprised even to remember that he hated Grantaire.

“Uh, hello?”

Grantaire grinned at him. “Hello there,” he had said, raising one hand and waggling his fingers. “I am here to talk to you.”

Enjolras had balked. “Are you drunk?”

Grantaire, in response, shrugged. “Yea, probably, can’t remember.” He looked to the side, his face drawn in concentration. “Listen, are you going to let me in?”

“It’s three in the morning!” Enjolras hissed.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Grantaire said seriously. “Didn’t realize what time it was.”

Enjolras had sighed. “You might as well come in.”

As soon as Grantaire was in Enjolras’ living room, he had turned to him and apologized. Enjolras, flabbergasted, managed to let out a strangled, “What?”

Grantaire let out a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his hair, “Look I’m sorry, for the things I said to you, for the things I said on twitter, for being a general waste of space…”

“You’re not a waste of space,” Enjolras had said automatically, because he didn’t believe anyone to be a waste of space.

“Yea ok whatever, I’ve just been thinking since you yelled at me, um… last night and I’ve come to accept that you are right. I was offensive, on so many levels, and I just… I um… I don’t want you to think that I’m intolerant, except that I am and I guess I needed someone to yell at me for it to sink in.”

“Ok?” Enjolras asked, skeptical at this sudden confession.

“I mean I’m not saying it will stop, suddenly, I’ll always be a pretentious douchebag, but next time it happens, I’ll keep you in mind.” Grantaire’s smile was more self-deprecating than anything and Enjolras felt something he couldn’t quite understand at three in the morning, but the feeling was far from negative. He nodded.

“It’s ok, as long as you’ve seen the error of your ways,” Enjolras had rubbed his eyes and looked at Grantaire. “To be honest, I’m surprised I even got through to you.”

Grantaire had given him that unhappy smile again. “Hey even I have enough integrity to admit when I’m wrong.”

And he had left Enjolras’ apartment, just as suddenly as he had entered it.

So they had a truce. Grantaire was no longer offensive, but he was annoying and his jokes—and most of his attention—were now directed at Enjolras. At that point in their relationship, Enjolras had had fantasies about bashing Grantaire’s head repeatedly against something hard since he had made it his mission in life to irritate Enjolras.

When he had repined to Combeferre, Combeferre had smiled and told him to do the sensible thing and talk to Grantaire. Enjolras had immediately texted Grantaire and they met for lunch at a cafe.

Spending time alone with Grantaire had been… surprisingly pleasant. They’d talked about Grantaire’s plans with 1832 and Enjolras’ goals in joining a boy-band. Grantaire, it seemed, just wanted to play music and have fun. He had not, however, made fun of Enjolras’ dreams to reform a generation of people with the power he had over social media. He had listened intently as Enjolras explained the purpose of his daily twitter posts, usually quotes from 18th century French revolutionaries and 20th century American civil rights activists, and didn’t laugh. Much.

After that, they had formed a tentative friendship. Grantaire still liked to say things to provoke Enjolras and draw a reaction out of him, but the teasing was less mean-spirited and more playful.

Grantaire’s friendship, however, was both a blessing and curse. He was intriguing, and funny, and curiously well informed for a person who pronounced himself uncaring of all things. He was also attractive. God, he was _so_ attractive. He was a sight with his messy undercut, tattoos stupid floral shirts and tight jeans. Grantaire, as an entity, was confusing for Enjolras, who had not felt himself attracted to anyone, _ever_.

At first, he had tried to deny even the existence of such an attraction.

Now he no longer denies it. Now he ignores it, pretending he has no feelings even though Les Amis tease him mercilessly, pretending he doesn’t care even though whenever Grantaire’s around Enjolras feels more aware of his surroundings and less able to form complete, comprehensive sentences.

As he listens to the sounds of Grantaire changing in the bathroom, Enjolras thinks about how the two of them are friends now, despite all odds. One day Enjolras will be able to tolerate the romantic feelings that engulf him, and maybe after that they can be more than friends.

—

—

Enjolras closes his eyes and tries to drown out Courfeyrac and Bahorel’s boisterous “I’m on a Boat” rendition. They are, in fact, on a boat, but it’s a big boat and there is no reason for those two to be as loud as they are. He wants to yell at them to be quiet, but that requires standing up and, at the moment, he does not want to stand up. This is due, primarily, to the fact that Grantaire is engaged in telling him stories from his last show in America, and Enjolras cannot think of a more pleasant way to be spending his time.

“And then I said: stop throwing chocolate the song is not even about chocolate it’s about weed!”

A laugh escapes Enjolras before he can help himself. He opens his eyes to find Grantaire looking at him fondly.

“So did the chocolate stop?” He asks, letting himself focus on Grantaire’s smile.

“Fuck no, they just started throwing more chocolate,” Grantaire replies, shaking his head. “I don’t even know where they found that much chocolate.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Well at least they threw chocolate at you and not bras.”

Grantaire looks at him sharply. “They throw bras during your shows?”

Enjolras frowns. “You knew that.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Did I, though? I don’t think I did.”

They sit quietly for a second, listening to Courfeyrac and Bahorel and now, surprisingly, Jehan shouting “I’m on a boat” repeatedly.

“Your friends are idiots,” Grantaire says after a pause.

“They’re your friends too, and don’t tell me you’re not dying to go join them,” Enjolras replies.

Grantaire leaves his own pool chair to sprawl facedown onto the one Enjolras is currently occupying. His hair falls into Enjolras’ face and oxygen suddenly doesn’t seem to want to cooperate with Enjolras’ lungs. He splutters for a second, batting Grantaire’s hair away.

“Oh God, get off me you monster,” he says, even though his mind is yelling at him to be quiet and let Grantaire stay where he is.

Grantaire raises himself on his forearms and grins at him. “I’d rather be here with you.”

Enjolras stills. “Be here annoying me you mean,” he says, pushing Grantaire off the chair. He is not focusing on what Grantaire said. It can’t mean anything else. Letting himself think that it does would be dangerous, even more dangerous than focusing on Grantaire’s fond smiles.

Grantaire catches himself before he hits the floor and looks up at Enjolras. “Being with you is pleasant no matter what we’re doing.”

Enjolras stays quiet, not trusting his voice, nor the words that might come out of his mouth if he attempts to speak. His heart is beating so loudly, he’s certain Grantaire can hear it from his position the floor.

The smile on Grantaire’s face twists into an uncertain grimace at Enjolras’ silence, and Enjolras desperately wants to say something to make him smile again. He opens his mouth, but no words come out and he closes it again, lest he look like a suffocating fish.

Grantaire looks away from him and coughs. “Um, so you wanna go swimming in the pool?” He asks, his voice lacking the mirth it had before.

Enjolras nods. “Yea pool, pool is good,” he says, smiling uncertainly at Grantaire. It’s not like Enjolras to feel this—or any—kind of uncertainty, and he wants to hate Grantaire for it, but of course he can’t. Enjolras’ crush is not Grantaire’s fault.

Grantaire stands up and walks towards the pool. He sits at the edge and looks back at Enjolras. “You coming, blondie?” he asks.

Enjolras stands up, the joke making him feel a bit less awkward. “You implying I should hit you over the head with a frying pan?” He asks, sitting next to Grantaire on the pool.

Grantaire laughs out loud. “Whoa there, you play along this well and by the end of the day I’ll end up with a video of you singing about having a dream,” he says, and lowers himself in the pool. He treads water until he reaches the middle of the pool and turns around. “What’s your dream anyway, musical revolution?”

_And you_ , Enjolras thinks, and jumps in the pool.

—

“… _the young heart-throb was photographed yesterday in a pool with 1832_ ’ _s lead singer and the fans, who have already been speculating about their relationship, took to social media to discuss the furthest development. So far there have been several conclusions, the most outrageous being that 1832 is using their friendship with Les Amis to gain publicity. A large part of Les Amis_ ’ _fan base seem to subscribe to the idea, so much so that the two bands have taken note. Most of Les Amis have remained quiet about it, except Joly, who angrily repudiated these claims last night in a tweet._

 

_The members of 1832, on the other hand, took to twitter last night to ridicule and refute the claims. Said Bahorel, the band_ ’ _s guitarist, in a tweet last night_ “ _It_ ’ _s like this: friends hang out. It_ ’ _s not our fault paps won_ ’ _t leave Les Amis alone for one effing day._ ” _Bousset and Feuilly retweeted this statement to their own accounts, with Bousset also tweeting a picture of himself and Joly as 8 year olds._

_Grantaire, who was the catalyst for the online drama, and who has been very no nonsense about accusations in the past, has remained quiet on the issue. At least, as far as social media is concerned_ …”

—

Enjolras’ phone goes off at 2:30 AM, jolting him out of sleep. He swears, throwing an arm towards his nightstand and grabbing his phone. It’s his first night back home, back in his own comfortable bed, and he feels like strangling whoever is texting him at such a god-awful hour.

It’s Grantaire. Because of course it is. Is Enjolras surprised?

He groans and opens the text.

**From Grantaire:** I’m sorry.

Enjolras blinks at the text, his groggy mind taking a second to catch up and comprehend what it says. He quickly responds with a “ _What for?_ ” before closing his eyes and laying his head back on the pillow.

He’s half asleep by the time Grantaire finally texts back.

**From Grantaire:** People are being real assholes on the internet. Saying we’re using you guys for publicity, and I’m sorry if I’ve ever made it look like that.

Enjolras blinks at the text before he carefully types his response.

**To Grantaire:** Of course not! Why the hell would you even think that?

**From Grantaire:** Idk, just… I’d care about you even if you weren’t famous you know that right?

**From Grantaire:** I’d willingly spend time with you if you weren’t famous.

**From Grantaire:** Hell I’d spend all my time with you if you weren’t famous.

Enjolras closes his eyes and counts to three. He will not freak out about this. He will not.

**To Grantaire:** Yea I know idiot. You’d have to care about publicity to use me for it. You’d have to care about your image and stuff.

**To Grantaire:** Your lack of filter proves that you actually don’t.

**To Grantaire:** You’re brutally and unapologetically yourself. If people don’t admire that then that’s their problem.

Grantaire doesn’t respond for five minutes, which is scary for Enjolras. Then:

**From Grantaire:** It bothers you doesn’t it

**From Grantaire:** That you have to watch your image all the time

**From Grantaire:** That you’re often censored for the good of the group

**To Grantaire:** It eats away at me. If I could only be as open as you without facing consequences… You’re lucky, you don’t have to deal with that stuff. You’re so lucky. You know what I wanted to say to all those people who were saying those awful things about you?

**From Grantaire:** What?

**To Grantaire:** “I’m fucking happy, why can’t you accept that and leave my friends alone?” But if I had I would not have heard the end of it.

**To Grantaire:** Sometimes I ask myself, what’s the point. I wanted to be famous so I could make a difference. How can I make a difference when every single move I make is dictated and censored for PR reasons? I’m barely myself…

**From Grantaire:** This is way too deep a conversation to have on text.

**From Grantaire:** But Enjolras

**From Grantaire:** You ARE making a difference.

**From Grantaire:** You’re so important. The way you handle hate tweets, the way you support your fans. The way you stand up for everyone’s rights to express themselves.

**From Grantaire:** You’re a force. An important one, don’t ever doubt yourself

**From Grantaire:** Hell, I believe in you, and I don’t believe in anything.

**To Grantaire:** You didn’t always

**From Grantaire:** I do now <3

Enjolras closes his eyes and falls asleep smiling.

— 

 

 

 

 

—

Enjolras sits quietly on a barstool, watching his friends joke and holding a drink he doesn’t intend to touch. They get together every time they have free time. Les Amis also go to high profile parties, but Enjolras prefers gatherings like these. He likes performing in front of a group of people. Singing and having people listening to him, it’s… well, it’s invigorating. But big parties feel lonely to him, which is why he feels most comfortable with his group of chosen friends.

“Hey Saint-Just, too busy thinking of how to improve the music industry through violent revolt to engage in idle chatter?” Grantaire’s voice takes Enjolras out of his reverie and he snaps to attention to see Grantaire take a seat on barstool next to him. His drink is only half full, unlike Enjolras’, but he sets it down when he sits.

“Saint-Just today, am I?” Grantaire has taken to calling Enjolras by random French revolutionaries since the performance a few weeks ago, and no matter how much Enjolras scolds him, he won't stop.

Grantaire grins. “Beautiful and severe and completely devoted to your ideals, of course; Saint-Just fits you perfectly.”

Enjolras sighs. “You said the same thing about, who was it? Robespierre?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “No way I called Robespierre beautiful.”

“What I’m saying here is that you are recycling explanations.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Yea whatever, you’re just mad because I saw through your charade.”

Enjolras schools his face into a thoughtful expression, then says tonelessly, “Yes, I am angry at you for that, how dare you spot something so obvious.”

He rolls his eyes at Grantaire’s startled laugh and sips at his drink to hide his smile.

“Really I’m glad you saw it, it’s about time someone noticed how hard I’m trying to send a message.”

“How serious are you exactly?” Grantaire asks incredulously.

“What’s the point of being famous if the only message you can send is harmful to teen girls?”

Grantaire sighs. “Are you moping about the pop part of your band again?”

Enjolras glares at him. “I’m moping about the manufactured sound, the highly impersonal and general lyrics, and the overall marketable nature of my band.”

Grantaire’s second sigh is purposefully loud. “You know what I think of, well, boy bands,” he begins.

Enjolras hums in response.

“But ok, people _like_ you guys,” Grantaire says. “Look,Enjolras, there are millions of teenagers—“

“And non-teenagers,” Enjolras adds.

“And non-teenagers, who connect with your music, and who are we to say they’re wrong?”

Enjolras looks at him, disbelieving.

“You guys help write your own songs, they’re not highly impersonal even if some people call them manufactured, but literally all popular music is… You, _you specifically,_ keep donating money from ‘the marketable nature’ of your band to charities people have never even heard of. Enjolras, if you can educate and help people, people like me even, so what that a bunch of snobs think less of you, they’re just jealous because they can’t be as cool as you.”

Enjolras looks at him, having been rendered speechless by the sudden and unanticipated speech.

“Besides,” Grantaire adds, smiling. “I like your songs.”

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better,” Enjolras replies, trying not to smile.

Grantaire snorts. “Would I do that though? Would I?”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just shrugs.

“I wouldn’t,” Grantaire says, tapping him on the nose. “Cheer up, Marat.”

“Must you?”

Grantaire puts a hand on his chest and says, sincerely. “I truly must.”

As he watches Grantaire leave, Enjolras decides that he willno longer deny the fact that he is absolutely and utterly in love.

—

—

Enjolras feels like biting his nails.

No well, he feels like running. Just turning around and running. He’s never felt truly nervous about a show, excluding that one time Les Amis dressed like 1832 and performed on national television, but Enjolras never felt like running when his band was performing their own songs in front of people who, by all accounts, were excited to see them.

It is the first show they’re having, completely unannounced, in the middle of an indie music festival. Enjolras knows he has fans in the crowd but, well, he feels like the people out there are just as likely to throw tomatoes at them than cheer for them. Still, he wanted to do this. He was the one that had suggested they go to the festival in the first place. He was the one who had convinced Valjean this was a good idea. He was the one who had come up with the idea of keeping their performance secret to decrease the number of super fans who showed up, making the performance more relaxed.

Now his body feels as though it’s in constant motion. He can’t focus his mind; he finds it hard to breathe.

Somewhere in his general vicinity, Combeferre is talking to Joly about stage positions. He thinks perhaps he should join them and contribute, but instead he hears himself announce that he’s going for a walk. He leaves their bus in a haze and registers, a minute after he has left, that Combeferre had told him their performance would be in a few—three?—hours.

Enjolras doesn’t know where he is going. The area near their bus is oddly deserted, everyone who would normally be crowding around it is most likely watching the musicians perform.

His feet know where he wants to go before he even knows himself. His worries preoccupy him until he almost runs into the closed door of 1832’s bus. Standing in front of the steps, Enjolras wonders whether his friends have joined the festival’s attendees in music listening. It occurs to him that of course they are gone, that must be why the door to the bus is closed. Still, he doesn’t want to leave without having attempted at least to talk to one of his friends—Grantaire even, if he’s lucky. Having decided upon finding out whether either of the four boy’s are in the bus, he stands in front of it, not sure whether he should knock on the door or yell someone’s name.

Fortunately for Enjolras, his phone dings with a text notification before he has to make a decision. He opens it to find that a) he has received a text from Grantaire and b) someone has changed Grantaire’s name to “My Favorite Person” on his phone.

**From My Favorite Person:** Why are you standing outside our tour bus looking lost, Rousseau?

**To My Favorite Person:** Omg will you stop?

**From My Favorite Person:** Never! Were you planning to come in?

**To My Favorite Person:** Please.

The text is barely delivered when the door of the bus creaks open and Grantaire sticks out his head.

“Wasn’t expecting you,” he says raising a hand in greeting. “Come in.”

Enjolras follows him inside the bus without a comment. He sits across Grantaire around the small round table in the bus, and, because he’s been spacing out all day, it takes him a while to realize that Grantaire has spoken.

“What’s on your mind?” is a simple question, a polite question, a question that any one would ask when an acquaintance is behaving severely out of character, and yet—

“I’m so nervous I don’t know what to do with myself,” Enjolras says before he can stop himself. He surprises Grantaire with that answer, but not as much as he surprises himself.

“ _You_ ’ _re nervous?_ ” Grantaire’s voice is several octaves higher than normal. “You?”

The breath leaves Enjolras’ mouth in an irritated huff. “Yes, me, I’m nervous, is that so hard to accept?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Well, honestly, yea it is.”

“Why?”

Grantaire doesn’t respond. He raises an eyebrow instead, and Enjolras sighs.

“Ok, yea, I’m surprised too, but I… well, I just feel weird not performing in front of people that I know love me no matter what.”

Grantaire smiles at him. “You’ve never performed in front of people who didn’t love you then?”

“Well, I mean,” Enjolras starts. “Before X-factor? My parents’ church I guess, and school assemblies, but nothing else.”

“And then after X-factor?” Grantaire continues.

Enjolras shrugs. “After X-factor we only performed in front of people who already liked us.”

“Or,” Grantaire says. “Or you performed thinking that they already liked you, and your performance made them like you.”

Enjolras furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire stands and sits in the chair next to Enjolras, looks directly at him and says, “Enjolras, I have never met anyone, and I mean it, _anyone,_ who has seen you perform and not liked you.”

Enjolras feels hot, Grantaire is way too close and the words coming out of his mouth seem straight out of one of Enjolras’ daydreams.

“You’re an amazing performer, charismatic and kind and handsome. No one, as long as they are honest with themselves, can watch you perform and not fall a little bit in love.”

Enjolras can’t find the response to that. Grantaire has—if not always—often been the first to both support him and point out the flaws in his performances. Yet, he has never gone so far as to say something so, so…

“Are you speaking from personal experience?” The words come out of Enjolras’ mouth before he can stop himself. He has no time to be horrified though, because the next moment, Grantaire smiles softly at him.

“Maybe,” he says, and leans closer to Enjolras. “Maybe I was already a little bit in love _before_ I saw you perform.”

“Grantaire—”

“Maybe by the time I saw you perform there was no way of stopping the ‘little bit in love’ thing that I was feeling.”

Grantaire laughs, shaking his head and avoiding Enjolras’ eyes for the first time that day. “I’m sorry,” he says, scrubbing his face with his hand. “I don’t know what’s come over me, probably whatever’s taken ahold of you, yea?”

He looks again at Enjolras, his expression a storm of emotions: hope, fear, and perhaps embarrassment. Enjolras feels that he needs to talk now, that if there ever was a time to open his mouth and figure his own heart out, it would be this moment.

“I mean, I don’t expect you to, well, I don’t expect anything from you,” Grantaire says, before Enjolras can gather his thoughts together and form a coherent sentence. “Honestly, I… shouldn’t have even said anything—”

“No!” Enjolras says, finally getting a hold of himself. “No wait, just stop. I’m trying to process everything you’ve just said.”

Grantaire shuts his mouth. Thankfully.

Enjolras bites his lips and tries to stop his heart from beating so fast before he continues. “Are you saying that you like me, like, as more than friends?” he asks Grantaire. His voice attains a squeaky quality as he forces the question out.

Grantaire nods once.

“In a romantic way?”

Grantaire sighs and cracks his neck, looking everywhere but at Enjolras. “Yes, romantically, what other way is there?”

“Ok,” Enjolras says. He thought that if he had ever been put in this situation, he would know what to do. Mostly, he had imagined himself kissing Grantaire to prove his own affections. But now that he is put in this situation, he finds that he doesn’t know what to do, or what to say, or how to react. So he asks the next question that comes to his mind.

“How long?”

Grantaire’s smile is self deprecating. “Since you yelled at me for being a hypocritical piece of garbage.”

For a moment, Enjolras feels like slapping himself. All that time, all the time he could have had Grantaire, and both of them had said nothing.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Grantaire closes his eyes. “The same reason no one ever says anything, Enjolras.”

At Enjolras’ inquisitive look he goes on. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I didn’t think that you would ever feel the same way about me and I wanted to hold onto our friendship.”

“I did, though,” Enjolras says. “I did feel the same way.”

Grantaire looks as though he is about to respond, until he hears what Enjolras had said, and stops with his mouth already open. He promptly shuts it, opens and shuts it again.

“I felt the same way, not as long as you have, but after a while, after we became friends. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”

“Excuse me?” Grantaire says finally, his face has morphed itself into a smile.

“I’m in love with you,” Enjolras says, and stands up and looks down at Grantaire, smiling. He resists the urge to pace. “I’ve been in love with you for years.”

Grantaire stands up too. “Why didn’t _you_ say anything?” he says, frowning, but the frown won’t stay on his face. It finally gives up the battle and lets a smile replace it.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Enjolras says, his smile expanding. “I liked being friends, I wanted to hold onto that.”

Grantaire steps closer and puts his hands on Enjolras’ waist. “Cheeky,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against the top of Enjolras’ head.

Enjolras closes his eyes, bumps Grantaire’s forehead with his own. “I learned from the best,” he says, and his voice is as quiet as Grantaire’s.

“I’m going to kiss you know,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras leans into the kiss he knows is coming. He feels Grantaire’s chapped lips against his, breathes, and pushes back.

—

 

—

Enjolras is sitting in Valjean’s spacious office, sipping tea and waiting for Valjean to get off the phone. Valjean looks a bit strained, but he talks calmly to the person on the phone, and when his gaze occasionally flicks to Enjolras, there is no apparent anger there. Maybe frustration and annoyance, but not anger. Frustration and annoyance, though, are common in Valjean’s gaze, so Enjolras is completely confused as to why he has been summoned to the office.

He sits there quietly for about ten minutes, trying very hard not to listen to Valjean’s phone conversation, before Valjean sets down his telephone and looks ready to talk.

“You wanted to see me sir?” he starts politely.

Valjean sighs, “I did.”

When he provides nothing else, Enjolras continues.

“May I ask why?”

“I wanted to talk about your new relationship,” Valjean says. And of course, how had Enjolras not suspected something like this. He feels himself tensing immediately. Valjean is a kind and patient man, this kind of inquiry is vastly out of character for him.

“I wanted to know whether you wanted to go public with it,” Valjean continues, and Enjolras freezes, because, what?

“I’m sorry?” He says instead, hoping tha t Valjean will explain.

“There’s lots of speculation about it on the internet, my partner brought it to my attention the other day, and I thought well, the right course of action would be to not say anything, but ultimately it’s your decision.”

Enjolras is completely blindsided. “You have no objections?”

Valjean sighs. “I should really. This _will_ affect sales and people’s opinions. You dating alone would be somewhat problematic. You dating a boy? A PR nightmare. You dating someone controversial… well I don’t really know what to say about that.”

Enjolras frowns. “Grantaire isn’t controversial.”

Valjean nods, like he understands what Enjolras means. “He’s not really family friendly either. Your image, however, is supposed to be. No matter what Courfeyrac seems to think.”

Enjolras thinks about Valjean’s question. He does want to tell everyone that he has a boyfriend, because he didn’t think it would happen and now it has. Valjean however, has a point.

“To be honest with you, I hadn’t thought about coming out at all. You know I’ve never been put in this situation because, as Courfeyrac might say, I’m extremely picky when it comes to romantic partners.”

Valjean hums in agreement.

“Let me talk to Grantaire about it and get back to you?” He asks and, with Valjean’s consent, he leaves the office.

Taking out his phone and calling Grantaire is actually more difficult than he anticipated. This thing between them is way too new for him to be able to call Grantaire without his heart rate increasing. Enjolras thinks it’s probably unhealthy too, that his hands shake a little and his breath catches as the phone rings.

Grantaire picks up on the fourth ring, just as Enjolras gets inside a taxi.

“Madame Defarge, I was just thinking about you,” comes his cheerful voice.

Enjolras is torn between being flattered at the latter part of the sentence and being outraged at the former.

“She’s not even a real person!” he says, before he can stop himself. “Have you actually run out of real French Revolutionaries to nickname me?”

Grantaire laughs. “If I had, could you come up with some off the top of your head?”

Enjolras is about to respond with a name when he catches on to Grantaire’s game and decides to not let himself be goaded. “Perhaps I could, perhaps I couldn’t, but this is not why I’ve called you.”

“Fine, but you’re a killer of joys,” Grantaire says, though his voice loses absolutely no mirth. “What is it you wanted?”

“I need to talk to you,” he says, and hears Grantaire gasps.

“You’re breaking up with me already, that was quick,” he says, his tone teasing.

“No, I need to talk to you and it’s serious. Can you meet me in person, are you busy right now?”

“I’m not busy, where do you want to meet?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras shrugs, remembers that Grantaire can’t actually see him shrugging, and sighs. “I don’t know, do you want to come to mine?”

“Give me half an hour.”

—

—

“… _and there_ ’ _s been a lot of speculation about you having a relationship with a certain heart-throb. Is there anything you_ ’ _d like to say about that?_ ”

“ _I mean, even if I was I don_ ’ _t think I_ ’ _d want to tell you, so no._ ”

—

 

 

 

 

 

 

—

Enjolras watches Grantaire on stage almost religiously. He knows, of course, that there are other people on stage, that those other people are also his friends, but he can’t take his eyes offGrantaire. He thinks, distantly, that if he were in charge of recording this performance, a lot of people would be disgruntled by him only filming Grantaire.

Grantaire might as well be jumping around the stage with the way he’s moving. There haven’t been that many performers tonight who have used the catwalk the way Grantaire is using it. He used it once at the beginning of the song. Now, towards the end, he’s using it again. Enjolras watches, transfixed, as Grantaire brings the microphone away from his own face to let Bahorel and Joly sing their parts. He uses the time to quickly move down the catwalk, and, to everyone’s amazement, down the stairs towards the main hall’s floor. He’s singing again by the time he reaches Les Amis’s table.

Enjolras has forgotten how to breathe.

This isn’t part of their plans. They haven’t talked about this. The last conversation they had was about maybe, finally, starting to hint that maybe, yes, they could perhaps, hypothetically, be dating each other. Enjolras doesn’t remember ever agreeing to be serenaded with a song during one of the most important musical award shows of the country.

And yet.

When Grantaire holds out a hand, Enjolras takes it and let’s Grantaire pull him out of his chair. He looks just at Grantaire’s smiling face. They’re not at an award show, they’re in Enjolras’ flat, singing lyrics at each other for fun.

Grantaire steps closer to him, puts his free arm on Enjolras’ waist.

Enjolras leans into him instinctively, and when Grantaire pulls him closer, close enough that they can share a microphone, Enjolras sings with him.

“… _breaking hearts, eyes bright, uptight, just girls._ ”

 — 

 

 

 

 

—

He wakes up two mornings after the award show to an empty bed. He’s mostly surprised because Granataire never, and really _never_ , likes to be up before Enjolras. Certainly, he doesn’t like to be up before noon.

Enjolras looks around for his phone, secretly hoping that an awake Grantaire means a Grantaire who has made breakfast. His phone, on the bedside table that’s fast becoming Enjolras’ personal table, has seven separate text messages, each from a different person, a missed call from Valjean, and another from Combeferre.

The first text is from Courfeyrac, it reads: “Valjean is going to have a heart attack <3”

The next eight are variations of the first text, with Combeferre’s being a bit sympathetic and Bahorel’s calling him a cute morning person.

Enjolras decides to listen to Combeferre’s voice mail before Valjean’s. It starts by telling him not to freak out, and to not, in any circumstance, go on twitter, then telling him to check his Instagram. Then, as an afterthought, Combeferre mentions the internet having actually broken down thanks to him.

Enjolras can hear Grantaire faintly singing one of Les Amis’ songs as he opens up Instagram and goes to Grantaire’s page. He opens the first photo.

His mouth drops open.

No wonder he woke up to an actual shit-storm.

He’s going to kill Grantaire. There will be a murder, and it will be attributed to Enjolras because he will, in a few minutes, be stabbing his current significant other with various kitchen knives. It will happen. Enjolras is determined.

He gets up and walks over to the kitchen for that express purpose. But seeing Grantaire in his pajama bottoms, cooking eggs and humming under his breath, stops him in his tracks. He smiles at the way Grantaire shakes his head to the beat and walks up behind him, wraps his arms around Grantaire’s middle and leans into him.

Grantaire leans back, turns his head to give Enjolras a kiss on the forehead.

Enjolras stops thinking of the stupid photo on Instagram. He can let Valjean and the PR people deal with that stuff, that’s what they get paid for anyways. Enjolras is going to enjoy Grantaire’s cooking instead.

—

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry to those of you who know the songs and the band and the boyband references but no you don't get any points for guessing who everyone is. It's way too obvious. 
> 
> Les Amis the band is mostly based on One Direction, since they are the biggest boyband... it made sense to me to have 1D in mind as I wrote them. The individual members are not based on anyone though. 
> 
> If for some reason you have made it to the end of this fic and haven't already figured out who Grantaire is based on (because that's the most important part) then come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://waroftheposes.tumblr.com/) or something and I will gladly and extensively discuss it with you
> 
> (It's Matt Healy from the 1975) (I have very little shame)


End file.
